On the way downstairs to grab coffee, I ran into Grace, the intern, in the elevator.
“Oh, hi, Jordan!” she said. She studied me from head to toe. It was almost as though she were visualizing herself in a pair of designer stilettos, fantasizing what her career could be like one day.
“Everything turned out so well!” she said. “I’m really glad I got a chance to work with you last night.”
“Well, you didn’t actually work with me, but I understand what you mean. Thanks. You did great,” I said.
Her enthusiasm rose. “I just had one of my most exciting days since I’ve been here.”
“I assure you every day won’t be like that,” I said.
“The vigil was amazing!”
A vigil is not amazing. A child is dead!
Inevitably, every year a new string of interns dying to be reporters jump into this business with a skewed view of the job. No one values heart anymore. It’s the drama they’re after, the thirst for the high five from a colleague congratulating you for “owning someone” in an interview. I know I might sound like an old J-school dinosaur sometimes, but I think schools should require would-be reporters to take psychology classes, or at least some type of counseling curriculum to acquire the empathy they need for the day-to-day, so they’re forced to remember these are human beings, not just stories. I realize this is exactly what Thomas was trying to convey earlier, and this ticked me off. It was the equivalent of somebody else calling your baby unattractive. You can say that, but another person can’t.
I mask my annoyance, because I realize Grace didn’t mean any harm and because I could tell she immediately regretted it.
“It’s tragic, I know,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. I grew up in Evanston, but it’s not the city-city.”
Therein lies her ignorance. Most of the time, the types of people reporters encounter at work are very different from the ones they grew up around. Like Grace, who has spent most of her life in the suburbs.
I changed the subject. “Who are you working for?” I asked. “Are you making the rounds or are you just supporting the camera crew?”
“Right now George, I guess. Or his boss. Honestly, it’s kind of been super low-key. I thought I’d be moving around more, working in different aspects of the newsroom. But so far I’ve spent the first couple weeks of my internship with the camera guys.”
I realized I’ve never been in Grace’s shoes, because she took a different path than I did, and now she was trying to break free of that path. So often people who graduate from prestigious universities take low- or no-paying internships believing they will get a chance to shadow a reporter their parents love on the news or someone they got a chance to meet once. If they’re really lucky, they will get help from that reporter or a nice camera guy to make their résumé tape. What they don’t know, and nobody tells them, before they get here is that between union rules and newsroom management, most of the time that doesn’t happen. They’re more likely to find themselves on a coffee or script printing errand with that $50,000-a-year journalism degree.
It’s a hard pill to swallow because they all want to be in New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago, and in some cases, they think they can go straight to the network because once upon a time somebody they know or heard of actually did. Reporter legends are a form of urban legend. It happened to this person, so it can happen to me. I always tell recent grads that it’s better to work in a small market first instead of a major city. It doesn’t matter where; just throw a dart at a map and head toward the first small market it lands on. Newbies are far more likely to get some real experience, actually meet people and get out of the bubble, even if it’s just covering the state fair, a high school commencement, or the Fourth of July parade. I smiled to myself, thinking about my mentor back in Dallas, Lucy Hansfield, who successfully fought off a legion of “I’m smarter, prettier, and I graduated from a better college than you” contenders who mistook her for a has-been because she was in her late forties and Black. Lucy is a dyed-in-the-wool city hall reporter, and she kept her coveted spot because she practically lived there, stalking the mayor and council members and hunting for clues in the bowels of the city clerk’s office, digging through dusty files because she valued getting the scoop over her manicure.
“Let me look into it for you. Maybe you could shadow me,” I said.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh my God, Jordan, I’d love that! Thank you!” she said.
“So, uh, Grace, I’m going to be doing some investigative work on the Masey James case. Some of it will probably be off the clock, so you’ve got to be ready to roll with me,” I said. “Do you have an iPhone?”
“Yes, actually, I just got one,” she said.
By now Grace was undoubtedly envisioning herself doing her sign-off from a breaking news report: “This is Grace So-and-So reporting for blah-blah news.” There was nothing more to explain.
It occurred to me I don’t even know her last name.
“I’m going to be knocking on some doors this week, which can get a little tricky. I’d feel better knowing someone was recording just in case . . .” I trailed off, because I didn’t want to say, “just in case someone tries to jump me or something goes wrong,” and frighten her. “It’s just a good idea to have back up.”
“Oh my God, Jordan, I’d love that! Thank you!” repeating her exact words from before.
“Okay, I’ll let you know,” I said as we got off the elevator. “Oh, and Grace, I’m embarrassed to say but I don’t know your last name.”
“Ito!” she blurted out with no ego and no offense taken. “It’s Ito. I-t-o.”
Now that I’d identified my apprentice, I had to figure out how to pull this off and what I hoped to get out of this arrangement. I decided to check out a new trendy coffee bar that recently opened along the pedestrian walkway by the Chicago River. Coffee is my water during the day, just as wine is my drink at night, so it’s a wonder it has taken me this long to try it. Besides, a walk would give me time to think. I crossed the circular drive by the Booth School of Business to access the winding metal staircase leading to lower Michigan Avenue. The sound of CTA buses and drivers laying on their horns to leverage their way down the congested, luxurious Magnificent Mile placed my body at the scene, but my mind was someplace else. Outside a crowded high school gym after the bell for the final period, waiting on my friend to meet me so that we could walk to the bus stop together. I tell her, “I’ve got a ride today.” She scrunches up her face, disappointed. “Again?” she says. She looks forward to our talks after school, no matter how brief. “Okay then, girl, see you tomorrow,” my new friend says, and walks away.
If I’m the friend, I’m thinking, Why can’t I walk with her to catch her ride? Why is the bus stop different? Is there something or someone she doesn’t want me to see? Maybe that’s it. Masey was hiding something or someone. Was her “ride” at the vigil?
“What kind of car was it?” I had asked Shawn Jeffries, and she responded like a typical teenager. “I didn’t pay any attention.”
Jordan, you couldn’t even tell Bass the color of the car in your parking space last night. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something more to it. Finding out was my new obsession.
I descended the steps to the bowels of lower Michigan, looking behind me as if the way back would suddenly disappear. The upper and lower streets in downtown Chicago are a configuration like no place else. The first time I came down here, I kept waiting for someone to yell, “Get out from down there!” It’s dark and oftentimes damp and a little scary at night. It reminds me of the tunnel in Paris where Princess Diana died in a car crash. But it’s perfect for inconspicuous parking lots and gargantuan heating and cooling systems for the vast number of high-rise office buildings and hotels on the busy thoroughfare above.
The wind was crisp and strong along the riverfront and fashioned fast-moving ripples across the calm water. Chicago’s wind is known as “the Hawk.” It nearly blew me backward as I rounded the corner and fought against it to open the static door to the café, instead of using the revolving door. The river wind rushed in behind me and nudged me from behind like a playground bully, drawing a few glares from the patrons.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly and moved toward the counter. As I was about to place my order, I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I figured it was Joey returning my call. I was wrong. I stepped to one side to take the call.
“You must be kidding me,” I said aloud to no one. It was Pamela Alonzo.
“Pamela, hi,” I said, at a loss for words.
“Hello, Jordan,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I wanted to call and thank you for everything you did yesterday. I saw your story. They can’t forget about my baby after that, can they?”
Oh yes they can, and they just might.
“Not if I can help it,” I said.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m grateful. I know I didn’t make it easy on you,” she said.
“Pam, it’s not your job to make it easy for me.”
I was anxious to tell her about April. “I’m really glad you called. I thought about calling you, but I didn’t want to intrude. Yesterday was overwhelming, and I’m sure you have a lot to do,” I said.
“You mean the funeral,” she said.
“Well, yes,” I said.
“I would if they would release the body, but the medical examiner hasn’t done that yet,” she said.
What? That’s insane. Dr. Chan completed his examination on Saturday; it’s Wednesday. What the hell is going on? I had already intruded on Dr. Chan once today, but I felt the urge to call him back and ask him why the morgue had not released the body to the family. I couldn’t dwell on that now. Pamela was on the phone, she’d reached out to me, and there were some important things I wanted her to know and needed to find out.
“Pam, remember the other day when you told me your mission in life was to find out who did this?” I asked.
“Yes, and I meant it, too,” she said.
“I spoke to my editor this morning. The whole newsroom knows how important this investigation is,” I said. A week ago, nobody was even trying to cover it.
“That’s very different from what I’ve experienced, Jordan. You and I know that wasn’t always the case, but I hope you’re right,” she said.
Summoning the courage, I blurted out, “Can we meet?”
I expected Pamela to hesitate. I was wrong about that, too.
“At the coffee shop?” she said.
“Are you up for it?”
“I’ve gotta get out of this house for a while. The walls are closing in on me,” she said.
I’d gone this far; I might as well go all the way.
“Pamela, there’s somebody I want you to meet. Somebody who wants to help, who can help, I think. She’s from Aurora. She’s a victim advocate.”
“Is she White?” she asked, which struck me as odd.
“She is,” I said, though it hadn’t occurred to me that Pamela might be suspicious of April’s motives. “She’s been looking into cold cases and working with retired law enforcement officers to reopen cases and put pressure on departments for more than ten years. But I’d rather she tell you her story.”
“I can be there in an hour,” Pam said.
“Can you make it two hours? I need to see if April can join us. That’s her name, April Murphy. She’ll need time to get here. In either case, there are a few things I want to talk to you about. See you at two o’clock?”
“You interviewed her last night,” Pam said. “Yes, she was interesting. I’d love to meet her. I’ll be there.”
* * *
So far today, things couldn’t be going any better. After I hung up from Pam, I called April to see if she could meet us. Just so happens, she was already in the car headed to downtown Chicago to drop off paperwork to one of her clients. I asked her if she could meet me at one-thirty. I wanted time alone with her before Pamela arrived to feel her out on this reconnaissance mission.
“Yes, that should work perfectly,” April said.
I arrived first and grabbed another coffee, then staked out the booth at the back of the store where Pam and I always sit. With a few moments to spare, I decided to call Lisette to give her the bad news.
“Hey, Jordie,” she answered.
“Hey,” I said unenthusiastically.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Wait, I already know.”
At times, Lisette can read me better than my mother. Sometimes we finish each other’s sentences.
“Yeah, I’m so sorry. You know I would love to go, but it’s not a good time for me to get away right now. The good news is I’m on special assignment,” I said, brightening.
“Girl, you stay on special assignment. What is it this time?” Lisette asked.
I almost hated to tell her, because by now I must sound like a broken record. “The Masey James case. Nussbaum is cutting me some slack from the day-to-day to focus on it. I don’t want to bore you with the details, but trust me, it’s good news.”
She sighed. “Well, okay. You know I was looking forward to seeing you every bit as much as Mike,” she said.
“Some alone time together will be good for the two of you,” I said.
“You’re right,” she said. “I think I’m in love.”
“What!” I shouted, drawing attention from the patrons standing at the counter. “Really?”
“It hit me the other night when we were talking on the phone,” she said.
“Have you told him?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “He hasn’t told me yet. I’m not saying it first.”
“Okay, well, yeah, I know you,” I said, chuckling.
“I dunno. Something about this trip feels different,” she said.
“Then I don’t feel so bad about not going. You all don’t need me there.”
Call waiting signaled an incoming from Joey. As badly as I hated to miss it, Lisette’s revelation was far too surprising and important to cut her short.
“It’s only a three-hour drive, so don’t be surprised if you look up and see me waiting for you in the lobby,” she said. “Bass’ll let me inside.”
“Hell, Bass will let you in my apartment!” I said.
Just then, I looked up and saw April Murphy coming through the revolving door. “And I would definitely welcome a visit,” I said, omitting if I can get the time off. If she comes to town, I’ll deal with it then. “We could double-date! But listen, let’s talk later. I’ve gotta go. My meeting just arrived.”
“Okay, I love you,” she said.
“That’s right, you just keep right on practicing those three little words,” I said.
“Only after he says it first!”
“Love you, too. Bye!”
April Murphy was almost unrecognizable. She had upgraded her suburban minivan mom look to suburban cool mom in a pair of black faux leather pants, with a matching black half sweater, a half faux leather jacket, a white turtleneck, and red high heel ankle boots. Our eyes met and I waved her over. She was carrying a stuffed brown legal folder.
“Hi, Jordan,” she said, extending her right hand while clutching the folder against her chest. “I’m glad we could do this today.”
“Thanks for coming on such short notice. Pamela is joining us at two. I wanted us to have some time to talk before she gets here.”
“Perfect! Because there’s something I’d like to share with you,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I have a friend who has done some consulting work for the state crime lab. He’s my boyfriend, actually,” she said with a tinge of embarrassment. “I hate that word.”
“Oh,” I said, finding her revelation unnecessary. It made me wonder whether she was always this transparent with reporters. No doubt, I wasn’t her first.
“Look, the only reason I’m telling you this is because I think he can be of some help to you—and to Pamela Alonzo.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Seth, that’s his name. He knows the state crime lab is a shit show of grand proportions,” she said, checking around as if someone in the boisterously loud café could overhear us.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Noncompliance, ineptitude, downright stupidity,” she said. “Just short of malfeasance, and I’m not convinced that’s wrong, either.”
Pressed for time, I probed. “Okay, what specifically are you talking about?”
She sighed hard. “Jordan, you won’t believe how much gets lost, overlooked, improperly assessed. If there’s one thing prosecutors and defense attorneys agree on, it’s that they are more likely to lose a case in the state crime lab before it ever gets to court.”
“Go on,” I urged.
April rested her left hand on the brown legal folder. “I’ve been keeping a record of their mistakes going back ten years,” she said and began pulling out data sheets and newspaper clippings. “It’s so bad, I’ve got to believe that some of it is on purpose. I’m talking DNA that could have changed the outcome of hundreds of cases lost or never reviewed, or if it was, the results could be delayed for months. Here, check out this piece in the Sun-Times.”
April and I leaned in close, our heads nearly touching.
“This is from 2003. Hundreds of rape kits from poor communities in suburban Cook County were never processed!”
“Wow, really?” I said and picked up the clipping. “I hadn’t heard about this. This happened before I moved here.”
Underneath the clipping was a stack of logs. “What’s recorded on these?”
“These are evidence logs from the state’s crime lab, from the county’s, and from the city of Chicago’s,” she said, spreading them out side by side on the table. “Look here.” She pointed to a line item. “See the entry date of this blood sample? It was from a murder committed during a home invasion. There was a struggle and blood had been collected from the scene that didn’t belong to the victim. See the case file number?”
“Yes,” I said. “But wait. How did you get these?”
She grinned coyly and batted her eyes.
“Oh,” I said. “Never mind.”
“Now look at the date recorded by the city’s crime lab. June 15, 2001. Right? The results were inconclusive. So the city sent the sample to the state crime lab in Springfield on June 29. Now look at the evidence log for the state. See that case file number?” I nodded. “The evidence wasn’t logged by the state until November of that year. You mean to tell me it took five months for that evidence to travel 170 miles down I-55 to Springfield?”
“That’s insane!” I said. “Was there ever a result?”
“No,” April said, shaking her head slowly. “I looked up the case file. The victim was a seventy-seven-year-old Black man. God bless him, he must’ve tried to fight ’em off, because he drew blood from his attacker. An arrest was never made in that case.”
I looked up at April, bewildered by what she was telling me. “And let me guess, that wasn’t an isolated case?”
“You got it! It happens time and time again,” she said. “I’ve tried to get print reporters interested in this story and in connecting the dots. The TV reporters blew me off entirely. The Sun-Times and the Herald did the rape kit story. But news organizations have short attention spans when it comes to these things. Too scientific; too ‘in the weeds,’ they tell me. One reporter said his editor asked him, ‘How many more stories can we write about government agencies being inept?’ The topic grew stale to them, and they moved on.”
“Meanwhile, the number of cold cases just keep piling up,” I said.
“Exactly. That’s why in recent years, more private labs have sprung up. Some of the better public labs are run out of the South and Southwest, in cities like Tulsa and Dallas–Fort Worth. We’ve got to have one of the worst systems in the country. And from what I’m told, law enforcement across the state ain’t big on asking the FBI crime lab for help when they’re stumped.”
April was talking so fast, I could barely keep up to form an opinion. This is what April wanted to talk to me about? To pitch a story every television outlet in town had already turned down? And why did they? It is interesting.
“All of this is public record?” I asked.
“Well, most of it, yes,” she said.
“Wow, you must be the queen of the FOIA,” I said.
“That I am, but I didn’t FOIA all of this,” she said, the wry smile returning. “Ever heard of pillow talk?”
There’s something about lying in bed with someone that makes us vulnerable. When we shed our clothes along with our inhibitions, that can lull even the most esteemed professionals into sharing confidential information that could get them fired if it ever came to light. April, I believed, risked sharing to convince me of her allyship.
“What does Seth do for the state crime lab?” I asked.
“He doesn’t work for the lab directly. He accredits public and private labs that have a staff of more than ten people.”
Maybe my prayers are working. This guy is the forensic equivalent of a CIA operative. I’m impressed. April’s forthrightness melted my skepticism and I felt compelled to share something about myself.
“You know the leading forensic pathologist in Cook County? Dr. Marvin Chan?”
“Of course!” she said, “but I don’t know him, personally. Seth has met him. He has a lot of respect for that man.”
“Dr. Chan is a dear, dear friend of mine,” I said. “I spoke with him earlier today.”
I felt the need to clarify: “But not pillow talk, let’s be clear. We met when I was in grad school.”
I was reticent to tell April about the tissue sample that Dr. Chan had sent out for analysis in the James case. Come to think of it, Masey hadn’t been the focus of her conversation thus far.
“Interesting,” she said. “Does he give you scoops?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but yes, he’s a good friend.” My mother has a saying: “It’s one thing to tell your business, it’s another to tell someone else’s.” Dr. Chan and I have several years of friendship on April Murphy. I wasn’t about to break his confidence for her on day one. “Dr. Chan is out of the country right now, so I’m not sure how much help he’ll be at the moment.”
“Hmm. Well, I think we could make quite a pair, Jordan,” she said.
You could be a valuable source, April, but a pair sounds exclusive, and that’s not what this is. April is amiable, but with sources, especially new ones, I try and do more listening than talking so that I don’t inadvertently say something that April could take back to a competitor, unwittingly or not.
“One thing is for sure, after hearing about all this evidence bungling, at such a high level, I’m going to track analysis of evidence in this case very closely,” I said.
“Hey, mind if I grab a coffee and a muffin really fast?” April asked.
“No, go right ahead,” I said.
“Okay, great. I’ll be right back.”
“You mind if I look through these?” I asked pointing to the neat brown legal folder.
“No, go ahead. Just keep the pages in order. There’s a method to my madness,” she said.
I found it interesting that April described the Dallas–Fort Worth crime lab as one of the best in the country. But I suspect further analysis would show that the way crimes are prioritized has a lot to do with it. Chicago crime isn’t all gun violence and gangs, but because those crimes occur more frequently, they receive more attention than kidnappings and serial murders.
I’d ignored several pings from my cell phone while listening to April’s story. I had three text messages. One from Pamela: I’m parking. One from Joey: What’s up? And one from Mrs. Bennett: Hi, Jordan. How are you? Saw your report the other night. Great job! Are you free for dinner Sunday?
Margaret Bennett’s husband, Robert, was a college buddy of my uncle Stew’s, my dad’s much older brother by twelve years. When he learned I was moving to Chicago, he arranged for me to meet the Bennetts. Since then, they’ve become my great-aunt and -uncle away from home. Mr. Bennett is a financial wiz and has given me excellent advice on my taxes, and Margaret, whom he calls “my Maggie,” is a renowned art curator, and she exudes all the elegance, style, and finesse that comes with that title. I relish Sunday dinners with the Bennetts. It makes me feel like I’m back in Texas with my family. After nearly fifty years of marriage, they still seem genuinely crazy about each other and they still look good. A beautiful older Black couple, they’re aspirational.
I returned Pam’s text: OK, we’re both here. I’ll see you soon. And Mrs. Bennett’s: Thank you, Mrs. Bennett. Yes, I’d be delighted to join you this Sunday. To Joey: In mtg. Call U back.
I looked up just as both Pam and April were walking toward the table. I slid out of the booth and stood up to greet Pam and, no question in my mind, to hug her, too. I held out my arms and she practically fell into them. I stumbled backward a bit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught April’s sympathetic expression.
“Pamela,” I said, releasing my grip. She pulled away. “Have a seat here next to me.”
Pamela looked up just as April took her seat on the other side of the booth. “This is April Murphy with Women United Against Violence.”
“Ms. Alonzo, thank you for meeting with me today. You have my sincere and heartfelt condolences,” she said. “I’ll do anything I can to help you. That’s a promise.”
Pamela dropped her head and looked up, tears welling in her eyes.
“I appreciate that Ms. Murphy, but it’s too late to help me. My child is already dead. But maybe we can help the next one.”
April took Pamela by both hands. “I know you’re right, but that breaks my heart. I haven’t lost a child, but I lost my mother to violence when I was in high school. I can’t change what happened to her, but I do this work because of her. I guess that’s why I can’t let it go.”
I fought back the tears, because I understood that mandate. I’ve used it myself to fill the void of having someone you love ripped from existence.
“So you understand, I’m not letting go until the man who did this is either dead or in prison,” Pamela said. “They catch your mother’s killer?”
“Yes. There was no mystery there. It was her ex-boyfriend. He’d been stalking her for months,” April said.
“Glad you got closure. See, I’m afraid I won’t live long enough to see that day. I don’t have any faith in the police after the way they handled—or I should say, mishandled—my daughter’s disappearance. If I heard the word runaway one more time . . . I was gonna scream!”
Her voice rose into a near scream. Her mood can change in an instant, as it did yesterday when I was interviewing her at her “sister-in-love’s.” But that’s to be expected under the circumstances.
“Through all of this, I’ve begged the police, and I begged them again last night, to do everything in their power to catch who did this. No, I didn’t bad-mouth them, because I need them on my side. You understand?” Pamela said. “This isn’t going to be another unsolved murder on the South Side. And you said the magic words last night on TV, April. You said if it’d been your daughter, the police would’ve handled things differently. I believe you’re right.”
It was then that April Murphy came into view for me as savvy and deliberate. For surely, it wasn’t lost on her that as a White suburban woman, for her to say what she did on the air last night boxes the critics in from describing Pamela as just another angry Black woman complaining about the police. April might not be batting a thousand with media, but she doesn’t fit the profile of someone who can be easily dismissed on police investigations.
I drifted away from the conversation for long enough that by the time I sprung back into consciousness, April was boasting about how her group helps victims’ families put pressure on police to do their jobs, and the success she’s had reviving cold cases across the country, which was different from the series of failures she described to me a few minutes ago.
Pamela and April were getting on well, and I hated to break their groove. But the question that had been burning in my brain since last night wouldn’t let me wait a minute longer.
“Guys, I’m sorry to interrupt, but, Pamela, I recall you telling me how Masey got to school every day. We were here, remember?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You said she took a couple of buses and walked about a half mile on the final leg of the trip.”
“Right,” she said.
“Did she take the same route home? Or did she get a ride home from school?” I asked.
Pamela looked puzzled. “No, she came back the same way. I don’t get off till six on Wednesday and Thursdays, and I work until seven on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays,” she said. “On Mondays, I pick up Malcolm early from after-school care. His auntie Cyn gets him the rest of the week. I wish I could’ve picked her up.”
It was as I’d feared.
“The reason I asked, Pamela, is because last night I met a girl from Masey’s school. She said they were friends. She told me that Masey got rides from school in the days leading up to her disappearance. Not every day, but on occasion,” she said.
“What?” Pamela exploded. “From who?”
“She didn’t know. She said she and Masey would meet after school by the gym and she’d walk Masey to the bus stop.”
“Okay, but she got on the bus, right?”
“Well, yes, on those days, she would get on the bus. But the girl said they’d meet at the gym regardless of whether Masey had a ride or not. She said Masey usually wouldn’t know until the end of the day,” I said. “But she didn’t walk Masey to her ride.”
“Masey never got no rides from school!” Pamela said with a look of disbelief mixed with betrayal. “That’s a damn lie!”
“Pam, she said she saw Masey get in a car once from a distance, but she couldn’t tell the make or model. You know kids. She didn’t think anything of it.”
“Was she sure?” Pam said, clearly struggling to breathe.
“I have no reason to doubt her. She seemed sincere, and she was very, very upset about Masey,” I said. “I didn’t include this in my report, because if there’s something to it—well, my instinct told me not to.”
“Why haven’t the police said anything?” she said.
“I honestly don’t think they know. I haven’t mentioned it to them yet. I wanted to ask you first,” I said.
“Oh my God!” Pamela said. “Oh my God!”
Pamela looked confused and frightened. It was obvious she genuinely knew nothing about this.
“Could a family member have picked her up?” I asked.
“No, not without me knowing about it!” she said.
April shifted uncomfortably in her seat and leaned back away from the table. I felt it, too, the awkwardness of learning at the same time as Pamela this revelation about her daughter. Any parent with a teenager knows their child doesn’t tell them everything. But a secret this big, this out of character as a guy picking her up from school? This was a blow, one that might push us closer to the killer but destroy Pamela in a way she couldn’t brace herself for, a betrayal of the closeness she believed she shared with Masey.
“What’s this little girl’s name?” Pam asked.
“Her name is Shawn Jeffries,” I said.
“You did interview her. I saw that,” April said.
“Yes, but I asked the editor to cut the part about Masey getting rides. Listen, something just told me to protect her. And from your reaction, I think I was right.”
“Jordan, your instincts seem on point to me,” April said.
“We’ve got to tell the police,” Pamela said.
“I agree,” I said.
“I’m calling them right now,” she said, and reached into her purse for her cell phone. “I’m calling Detective Fawcett.”
As she waited for an answer, a look of disbelief remained frozen on Pamela’s face. “Detective Fawcett, this is Pamela Alonzo. I just found out that someone saw my daughter get in the car with somebody after school. I didn’t know nothing about her getting rides from school. Call me.”
“It went to voice mail. Oh my God! Jordan,” she turned to me, now in tears. “This has gotta mean something. If Masey was getting rides from someone legitimate, someone I trusted, I would’ve known about it. If we find out who it is . . .”
“. . . it might lead us to the killer,” I finished.
The three of us sat silent for a moment. I hated to push, but I had one more important ask. “I’d like to talk to Masey’s favorite cousin, Yvonne,” I said.
“I’m sure Yvonne don’t know this. Something like this, she would’ve told me. She’s not crazy,” Pam said.
“I understand, but you all are family. Let me see if I can get something out of her that she may not be ready to tell you. She may be too afraid to tell you, honestly,” I said.
I instantly regretted the way that must have sounded. I didn’t want her to think I was suggesting that Yvonne was lying to her or that this wasn’t a close family. But I do know that kids don’t tell their parents everything. They get pulled into places and spaces their parents would flip out over if they knew. Pamela’s grieving, I know, but she understands what I’m talking about, whether she admits it or not.
Masey might very well have been sexually active, experimented with alcohol and smoking weed or something more. She was, after all, at that critical age.
Pamela quieted down. Just as I was about to clarify myself, she said, “You’re probably right. Yvonne does hair out of her house, but I can’t imagine she’s taking appointments right now. I’ll call her. When do you want to go?”
“Later today, if possible,” I said.
My cell phone vibrated. It was Joey again. Either he didn’t see my text, or it was important. I thought about telling Pamela and April that I have a friend at the police department but decided to keep it to myself.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m going to have to go,” I said. “I’ve got to return an important phone call.”
Tears rained down Pam’s face. As she struggled to gain composure, I realized she might not be composed enough to figure this out right now. “Okay, I’ll get back to you about Yvonne,” Pam said.
“What’s her address?” I asked.
Pamela hesitated. “I’ll text it to you,” she said, “but I want to be there when you talk to her, okay? Don’t go without me.”
“All right. I’ll wait to hear from you,” I said.
“Cameras!” April said abruptly. “We should be able to get camera footage from around the school.”
“Yes, but that’s something the police will probably have to ask for,” I said.
“Damn right!” Pamela said.
“Pam, if I were you, I’d go straight to the police station from here. And April, please, this has got to stay between the three of us. I just gave up a lot here, so can you promise me you won’t share this with any other media?”
“You have my word,” April said.
As I got up to leave, Pamela tugged my jacket sleeve. “Jordan, thank you.”
I nodded at them and bolted for the exit. Before I got out the door, my finger was already on the callback button.
“Hello,” Joey answered.
“Hey, Joe Joe. Sorry, I’ve been in meetings this morning whenever you’ve called,” I said.
“So what’s up?” he asked. “Oh, and before you ask, I don’t know anything else about the James case.”
“Well, this time I know something you don’t,” I said as I navigated my way up Lake Street through breaks in the pedestrian traffic.
“Oh,” he said, just as the “L” train screeched overhead with the deafening sound of grinding metal and speed. “I can’t hear you!”
“Wait, there’s a train,” I said. “Hold on.”
I scanned the block for a sound barrier and eased my way into the archway of a bank building, blocking the entrance, eliciting a dirty look from a patron. “Okay, can you hear me now?”
“Yes. So, what do you know that I don’t know about a case I’m not working on.” He laughed.
“Very funny. Listen, last night, one of Masey’s classmates told me she was getting rides from school every now and then in the weeks leading up to her disappearance. I just shared that with her mother, and her head exploded. She knew nothing about that!”
“You tell Fawcett?” he asked.
“No, not yet, because I wanted to ask the mom first to see if there was anything to it. There’s something to it. She called and left him a message.”
“Okay, so what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Tell Bartlett! I know it’s not your case, but you can just tell him someone who knows you personally reached out. I don’t care if you tell them it was me, okay? I just need Chicago PD to get over to that school and see if they can get security video of Masey getting into a car. And they better do it quick, because I’m heading over there now with a camera, and it’s gonna be on the news tonight. I promise you.”
“Why don’t you call him?” Joey asked.
“I plan to! But I thought a detective inside the department could get results faster than a reporter calling in a tip.”
“I’m not sure who’s the detective, you or me,” he said.
I didn’t know whether Joey was being facetious or complimentary. But I don’t care. I’ve confirmed a break in the case and planned to run with it, even if it meant police playing catch-up.
“If the school surveillance video exists of Masey getting in this car, it’ll look better for the CPD if they’ve pulled it by the time I break this story tonight.”